by Cindi Jones
I retrieved enough clothing from my car that I would need for a few days and stored it in a box next to the couch.
I found some quiet time and pulled out my paper pad to go through my to do list. I had prepared it several days ago when I was working in Salt Lake, before my lawyer had called. Here were the items listed:
1) Find a job
2) Support my children
3) Grow my hair.
I now knew exactly where I was going. The end goal was in sight. The objectives, the steps that I would take, were still not entirely clear. Sometimes they are not. I pretend to write the goal on a post it note on my forehead where I pretend to see it every minute of every day. When I figure out a step to work towards the goal I write it down.
I had money that would get me by for a few months. I somehow knew that by mid January, I would have a job of some kind. My financial obligations could be met for a while beyond that. Between now and mid January, while looking for work, I would have down time. I knew this time should be used while I would not be working.
This would be a time to take care of some of my transition. I decided to get breast implants. I could probably pay for it and still have enough time to get working. To be safe, I used a credit card to pay for the surgery and make payments until I did get a job. I would also focus strongly on electrolysis. While I had already been through some 100 hours of torture, I knew that there was considerable work to be done. Getting rid of facial hair was the single most important thing I would do to be able to pass effectively. I attended to this task weekly for the next year and a half.
I called around and found a doctor with an Italian name who would do my implants. I visited him that very afternoon.
He was very proud of his Italian heritage and had a delightful accent. He was careful to read the recommendations of my therapist in Salt Lake. I showed him my letter and prescription from my medical doctor for hormone replacement therapy (HRT).
He asked me about where I was in the process.
“I’m essentially just starting” I told him. I briefly explained a little of my history in Utah.
“Please”, he started “I can tell you have a strong will and know where you are going. Now, let me examine you,” he went on. I removed my blouse. “I can see some development of the areolas from the Premarin,” he noticed. “Feminization is clearly noted,” he said as he wrote in my freshly prepared file. “I must tell you Cindi that I am Italian,” he said.
“I couldn’t tell with that Texan accent,” I said as I grinned at him.
“Cindi, Italian men know breasts. Yes, if there is anything we know well, it is breasts,” he said as he winked. It was his manner to make me feel more comfortable. He was definitely a likeable doctor. I took no offense at his comment at the time. I was just grateful that he was willing to work with me.
“Let me show you some samples,” he said as he pulled out a few implants. “We can go with saline or silicon,” he said as he explained the differences between the two. We both agreed that the saline filled version would be the most practical. “Now what size do you want Cindi?” he asked.
“I’ve been wearing size B and I like that very much,” I replied. “But Cindi, you have an opportunity here to be much larger,” he went on.
“Doctor, I learned a long time ago that bigger is not better. I want to live life by blending in, not by sticking out. And I mean that most literally,” I explained. I insisted. He smiled at me.
“Cindi, I can say honestly that I have never met anyone quite like you. I will be honored to help you.”
Three days later the nurses rolled me out in a wheel chair. One of Trish’s friends had volunteered to take me to the office, wait, and bring me home. I compared this event to one similar in my distant past. Here was a man I had only met but was willing to donate his time to help a friend of a friend. When I had my surgery in South America and discharged, I could not get anyone from the mission home to come and get me. I had to take a cab and lay down in the back seat. The young gent who accompanied me this afternoon was kind and gentle as he helped me into his pickup truck. I was still coming out of the anesthetic induced sleep. He was very gracious when I asked him to stop and pick up tacos at the Jack in the Box on the way home. They were two for a dollar. I bought him a pair for his trouble. We went back to Trish’s place and ate our tacos.
I laid on the couch for the next three days. I did manage to get out a few resumes. I was glad that I had not waited to do this. My skin was tight and it was very uncomfortable. I had a tube sticking out in each armpit to drain. On the fourth day, I returned to the doctor’s office. My Italian doctor was very happy with his work.
“Americans do not know breasts. Italians, yes Italians, they know how a breast should look,” he explained. I smiled and he smiled back. He deftly removed the drains from each side. “These are doing very nicely Cindi, what do you think?” I stared at myself in the mirror. My skin was bruised and very tight but the shape was very nice.
“I am very pleased” I answered.
“You will grow some with the hormone therapy and as your skin stretches Cindi. You will be a size B as you wanted,” he said. We set up a follow up appointment just prior to the Christmas holiday.
On the way home, I had to take a walk through the mall. I was wearing loafers, corduroy jeans, and a tank top. I kept looking at myself in every window. I purchased nothing. I couldn’t try on anything, I was so sore. The wonderful feelings I felt were not sensual. They were fulfilling. I truly felt happy. No one at home would know of this. I could not share meaningful events with my family. I was alone in my joy. I reflected not upon sadness but dwelt on the happiness in my heart, for I had taken a big step towards my ultimate goal for change.
*****
Thanksgiving was coming up. Trish would be gone for the holiday. I would be alone. I had attended a Sunday service at the local MCC. They were very nice to me there and invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner. I would not be alone after all.
My mother had already sent me a couple of letters. Every single one expressed her love for me and her worries and concern about my happiness. She was having a terrible time coming to terms with the new me, still. But she never gave up her love for me. Each letter was welcome and I read every one 3 or 4 times immediately upon opening it. I continued to receive correspondence from other family members. It was painful to say the least. Charlene would continue to mourn her loss as she faced the financial realities of going back to work. I truly did feel sorry for her. I had royally screwed up her life. She related stories of my children that were heartbreaking. They still stick in my mind. These are things that will always be hard to forget.
Trish was always there to cheer me up. She always had a shoulder to cry on. Her compassion and love embraced all in her vision. I felt sorry for her as I could see the poor soles that streamed in and out of her house only to take advantage of her goodness. Matty used to call the place “Trish’s Home for Wayward Girls.” It was pretty funny but also very true. Throughout our friendship, I would see her give so much to so many people. Some would be grateful and some would not. I will always value her friendship. Trish became a lifelong friend.
I soon moved into the spare room. I cleaned it up nice and purchased a cheap twin sized mattress to sleep on. I was doing very well. My spirits were generally good and I was working through the misery I had caused and felt. It would take years to get through it. I took little steps and a lot of time to heal the wounds.
Trish hauled me up to the Santa Monica group session every week. We sat in a large circle and shared experiences with others like us. Dr. Jayne Thomas monitored the sessions. Dr. Thomas was well known in the area and served to counsel several movies and TV specials on the topic of gender dysphoria and related issues. The group sessions were of great interest. I could see how the dysphoria affected a number of individuals. The session was free. All you had to do was show up.
I was admonished several times before I made my trip to California tha
t there was a religion of transsexualism. I was told that groups of people would get together and talk each other into making the transition; to talk each other into castration.
Dennis had this discussion with me once. I pondered the how preposterous this must be. “Dennis” I said, “let’s suppose that I forced you to wear a dress and hauled you to one of these meetings every week. Tell me just how many meetings do you think it would take before you were willing to have your penis cut off?”
--Sting –Snip—Sting—Snip—Tug—Snip—
Are you uncomfortable yet?
I made my point. Yes, there is a culture of self help. It exists. But to infer that the self help process can induce an individual to play the role of the opposite sex for a full year, embarrass himself and his whole family, financially bankrupt himself, and then castrate himself goes beyond disbelief. The fact is, self-help groups are so needed because often times, it is the only support some of us can find.
I met a varied group of people and individuals while attending this group. One was making a documentary. She had major surgery on her face. A university project chronicled her progress for a year. She didn’t finish her transition during the project. Some thought this a failure. I considered it a staggering success.
Sometimes our life journey takes detours. Sometimes we can change our vision. Some of us can go back. It is for this reason the standards of care were created. During my transition, the standards required the individual to live full time as a woman in the workplace for one year. Think of this. Think of what it would take to work and live in the opposite gender while all around you other people know what is going on for a full year. Could you do it? Would a self help group help convince you to do it? That year is a valuable experience. It is difficult for everyone I have ever known. Even with full support from everyone around you, it is a very demanding project at best.
After the group meeting we would adjourn to a local restaurant. It too was a learning experience. I could often glean little tidbits that were otherwise unavailable in the group session. These were things that I learned about other people. I wanted to know how they viewed life. I wanted to know their thought processes. I was interested in their work and their outside interests. Cindi was her own kind of shrink. Cindi needed data to feed Squirrel.
The net result was that I learned about people. You learn the most about our species when you can observe people at their lowest, at their worst when times are tough. The human spirit is resilient and can rebound from so many tragedies. When they rise from the ashes, you can learn from their experiences. What motivated them? What did they do on their own? What was their support structure? What ultimately solved their problem? I learned so much about people, more than I could in a classroom environment. This was the human experience. Dysphoria was the base cause for these anguishing problems. But the truths apply to a wide variety of problems associated with depression and self worth.
I learned to listen. This became a valuable skill that I would use for the remainder of my life. And finally, I truly tried to learn compassion and charity. The true lessons I had learned in my youth rang true.
I had the opportunity to get to know Dr. Thomas in a few social situations outside of the self-help group. We talked about cars and kids. She acknowledged my help in the support group. She told me that I had a unique experience to draw from in human understanding. She liked my spunkiness and drive. She ultimately would prepare one of the three letters of recommendation I would need for reassignment surgery.
*****
One night, Clark Sedgewick appeared at the “front” door and knocked. No one ever came to this door. Everyone always would come through the garage door. They would call Trish from the gate of the condo unit and be buzzed in. Clark was standing there at the door and Trish answered.
“Is Cindi here?” asked Clark.
I was on the couch. It was impossible to ignore him. He could see me and I could see him.
“Do you know this guy Cindi?” asked Trish.
“Yea, he was one of my missionary friends in my old life, Trish.”
“Can I please talk to Cindi?” queried Clark.
“Do you want to talk to this guy?” asked Trish.
“Yes” I said. I didn’t know why Clark was here. I knew how he had gotten the address. I also knew that his family lived in the area. He was probably visiting and had offered to look me up.
“Can we go out for a bite?” asked Clark.
“Sure, let me grab my bag” I said.
“You should really call that a purse Cindi” said Squirrel
“You know that I really prefer “bag”, Squirrel,” I said to myself.
We sat across the table at a Denny’s or some such place. In the Anaheim area there are thousands of them supporting the tourist industry for Disneyland. I had been wearing a peach tank top and jeans when Clark showed up. I didn’t change.
“Wow” said Clark.
“Huh?”
“Did you get those done?”
“Yup.”
“I guess they aren’t coming out then are they?”
“Nope.”
“Well then, I’ve asked,” he said.
We then talked about some of the good old times and had a few laughs. I told him about what I had said to the plastic surgeon. “…Doctor, I want a B. I want to blend in, not stick out. And I mean this literally” I finished the story. It wasn’t all that funny but he thought that it was a hoot.
He then started telling me how his life was unraveling. He could not control his voyeurism fetish. He loved to watch girls undress.
“Are your subjects willing participants Clark?”
“They are now” said Clark.
“Clark, please, please, if you ever find yourself wanting to peep on unknowing women, give me a call okay?” I pleaded with him. I didn’t want him to get arrested. I also felt helpless to help him. I knew the power of a drive that could not be beat. In my case, I could only harness it and direct it some. It would drive me to completion. And then hopefully everything would help me live a more normal life.
“You obviously know how to find me,” I said as I gave him a big grin and winked.
“Yea, I can always look you up,” he said as he made the quotation marks with two fingers of each hand. We both knew exactly what we were talking about. The source had been Charlene. No one else would ever divulge where I lived.
He dropped me off at Trish’s. He gave me a bear hug and said “Take care Cindi. I hope that I’ll see you sometime.”
“Yea, just drop in any time Clark,” I said as I embraced my good friend. I secretly hoped that he could resolve his problems and save his marriage. But where such things were concerned, who was I to give advice?
*****
As Christmas time came, I became melancholy. This would be the first time that I would not have my children near me for Christmas. It would not be the last. My mother sent me a care package. One of the contents was a small plastic tree from Kmart. It was only about a foot tall and was completely decorated and strung with lights. It was my little Christmas tree from my Mom and I found a place to display it proudly. It was our only decoration. I’d use the little tree for the next several years wherever I went. It’s strange how some little thing can come to mean so much. I kept it for many years after and only discarded it recently. The poor little thing was literally ragged from use.
I interviewed with a head hunter. He covered my work history and asked many of the standard questions. He then used a device that I would later learn to use in my interview technique on both sides of the table. He asked “I sense something wrong, is there something that you’d like to tell me about?”
He was fishing as I later decided. I made the mistake of telling him about my transition. I knew that this resource was a total loss. He asked me to rely on him only and not to go to anyone else. I told him that I would but I did not. I’m glad that I did not. He did nothing for me. Two months later, he told me that I should look elsewhere. I r
ead him right. He fished and I told him about my secret. I learned to rely on my instincts more than ever before.
I went to numerous interviews over the next several weeks. None of them panned out. There just wasn’t that much going on in the LA area for high tech jobs. I had been sending resumes to bay area companies as well. I did fly up a couple of times for interviews. My biggest problem was that I actually preferred a job in an engineering role. My previous 5 years experience was in marketing. It was hard to go back. Engineers didn’t trust people from marketing management. There was a natural chasm between the two “types” of people. It was kind of ironic to see the equivalent of discrimination from engineering folks. I had some problems with references as well. Mine weren’t very good. I only had a couple of people that I had worked with that I could trust.
I finally found what I was looking for, a wart on the fine city of San Gabriel. This little company had once been growing and thriving until the president and owner passed it on to his son to manage. Daddy had purchased a degree for his son at a major university. Yes, he purchased a degree. All he had to do was go listen to a lecture once a week for a couple of years.
His son had lost money every year for the previous 15 years and he had precious little time to pull it profitable before the bank stepped in and seized the property.
The place was a true dive. They were looking for a Marketing Product Manager and I filled the bill. They hadn’t been able to find anyone with qualifications that would work there. It was a dump, they had good insurance that would cover my kids and did not exclude gender reassignment surgery and their specialty was outside my areas of technical expertise. This was perfect. The engineering and marketing world can be very small. I knew that these characters would likely find out about me here with the problems involved insuring my kids. And it was clear that they would know when I filed forms for my reassignment. Since they had no connections to real high tech, my secret would hopefully die on the vine down the road. They interviewed me and liked me.